Untitled 2
by mugiwaragrl
Summary: In another war between America and Russia, this is the story of a soldier who fought for the unlucky side.


Inspired in/best read when listening to: The Trooper by Iron Maiden, but it's not necessary bc i only got the idea from it so eh your choice

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I tried my best not to fall asleep in this uncomfortable place in the crowded military steamboat. How had this even happened? One day Matt and I were just chilling back at home, next thing we know Russia declares war on America and we are morally obligated to enlist in the army. And because of the 2012 electromagnetic crisis, we're stuck with the old steam-powered, soldier-and-horse ways. I thought the war century was over!

Matt was rejected for being too frail, so there I was, alone with a bunch of other soldiers I didn't know, making our way from California to the stretch of Bering where the main action was taking place. The Russians were starting with Alaska – I mean, I didn't know the details, but I guessed it was something about oil. Everything was about oil lately.

Fuck, it was getting so cold. We must be near.

Major Brewster suddenly appeared in front of our group with a distressed look. With visible anxiety, he informed us of the newly received Morse signal that told about the current defending battalion being under attack. We would serve as improvised reinforcements. The first battle of this war I'm in and I don't even get the main part. Awesome.

But there was something else, and we could all tell he was dreading to say it out loud. He said there was a reason why reinforcements were needed, that the European allied troops would take ages to arrive, that we were outnumbered by the Russians. That there was an extremely high number of estimated casualties.

Meaning, we were probably gonna die.

Everyone in the musky steamboat suddenly silenced, the atmosphere became tense. But honestly, I didn't understand why. If they weren't willing to die for our country, they shouldn't have enlisted in the first place!

Before I knew it, I had stood up firmly. "For America, we fight to the death, sir!" I saluted.

The Major seemed slightly less giddy and even managed a little smile. "I hope you have the same spirit on the battlefield, Jones."

"Yes, sir!"

Then another soldier stood up and said something similar. Then another, and another. Soon, everyone was saluting and offering their lives for America. Way to go, me!

I wish that atmosphere would've stayed for a little longer. We were mounting our horses on the deck now, and everyone was so gloomy! Land was only about a mile from us, and if we strained our eyes we could see the ongoing battle. I gripped the reins hard, the thrill of war starting to invade me. In hushed murmurs came the prayers of some soldiers, begging God for his protection. I would've prayed too, but I believed that if I were to survive, it would be because of my own skills, not God's mercy.

The sounds of battle reached our ears, I held my musket at the ready – yes, musket. Some of the most modern guns were ruined in the crisis, so we relied on 18th century warfare. This kind of musket was slightly modernized to be able to support more bullets and had a knife attached to the front, so it was useful in both ranged and close combat.

The bridge started lowering. The soldiers shifted anxiously, the ones who didn't have horses prayed frantically. Then the Colonel, a muscular middle-aged man with a scarred face, mounted hi horse in front of the bridge. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced with his gruff voice, shouting over the cries of war. "Welcome to the battlefield."

The bridge touched ground behind him, and he glanced grimly at the praying soldiers. "Where there is no God!"

Then we charged.

The deafening shouts and shots and clangs of metal pounded into my ears as I rode through the freezing battlefield, shooting every blue coat in range. I was careful with my bullets, because I knew there was a limited supply and that more of them would take a long time to arrive. Fun? No, not at all. I didn't enjoy killing people, but I knew it was the only way to win this way. To distract myself, I tried to name every person I shot.

…Yeah, not very distracting, but still.

_Bang,_ there goes Natalya. _Bang,_ there goes Igor. _Bang,_ Viktor. _Bang,_ Katyusha. _Bang,_ Nikolai. Wow, I was _so_ creative.

My next target was a silvery-haired Russian with – were those violet eyes? Cool! I named him Ivan. But when I turned to him, he had already aimed at me.

And then… There was pain.

That long millisecond when I was falling off my horse I became aware of the state of our side. Major Brewster? Shot multiple times in the back, kneeling on the ground enjoying his last moments. The guy that stood up after me back in the boat? Cornered by two Russians. The soldier that was praying? His bloodied body was currently being trampled by hooves and boots.

I suddenly remembered the time when I was just setting off, Matthew was there to see me go. "Alfred," he had said, with that silent and sweet voice of his. "Please come back alive."

My back hit the ground with a painful thud. Something warm and wet drenched my coat around my stomach, and I started shivering at the same time I realized it was my blood. The noises became more undefined, the people fighting above and around me became a slowly disappearing blur. And when the battle finally stopped, the sky towered above my pain, ironically blue and cloudless. Who had won? I hadn't counted the casualties from either side, and when I tried to lift my head, a blinding jolt of agony shot through me. So I just laid back and waited to bleed out.

I thought about Matt – oh no, Mattie! He'd be devastated when he learned that his twin died in war. And I was the one who broke the promise… Before I noticed, there was a tear rolling down the side of my face, mixing with the sweat and muck and blood. Any other time I would've felt humiliated to cry like this, but now I felt like it was necessary.

Then I felt footsteps, and lots of them. A neat line of blue coats came to my view, stretching infinitely to either side of the horizon. It advanced, then stopped, looked around, and advanced again, repeating these steps like clockwork. There came a point when it stopped at my level and stood over me, but no one took notice of the one American soldier who was still alive on the battlefield. No one seemed to fight back to them either. Did that mean we lost?

Some Russian jabber made me pay attention. They were pointing at me, laughing and mocking. Judging by their exaggerated gestures, they made fun of the fact I was crying – or had cried. I didn't think I had enough in me left to continue. I couldn't care less what they did. That is, until one of them decided to purposefully step on me.

A choked yelp and widening eyes were all I could manage when my stomach burned in pain. As if I didn't have enough already, jesus fucking christ! Damn, I think he even managed to pump blood from inside my body into my mouth. Fucker.

Then a different soldier intervened. Funny thing was, it was Ivan. He was speaking in heavily accented English for some reason, scolding the about abusing power or lived. Then he looked down at me, the soldier of the violet eyes. I was right in thinking they were cool, but they were so much more. They held sadness, regret, but determination. He probably didn't enjoy killing just like I did, it was just his job. Then he said something about ending my suffering, and pointed his musket at my head, giving me time for a single last thought.

_I'm sorry for breaking our promise, Matthe—_


End file.
